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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213460">50’s Family Hanukkah Stories 2020</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatteKitty_Kat/pseuds/ChocolatteKitty_Kat'>ChocolatteKitty_Kat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>New Music: the 50s AU [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cooking, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Food, Gen, Hanukkah, Holidays, Sibling Bonding, Sibling bickering, Siblings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holiday celebrations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:49:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatteKitty_Kat/pseuds/ChocolatteKitty_Kat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stories centering around Hanukkah celebrations in four different families in the 50s AU. Two stories are dedicated to the Jacobs family, and one each for the families of Katherine, Specs, and Albert. Lots of family-based fluff and sibling bickering. Find family trees for the AU on my tumblr, starship-squidlet (in the New Music preface/masterlist).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Jacobs &amp; Les Jacobs &amp; Sarah Jacobs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>New Music: the 50s AU [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128572</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Latkes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello!!! I fully admit that I am not Jewish, but I did a lot of research working on these stories. However, I also fully admit that I may have gotten things wrong! If I have messed up anywhere, please feel free to let me know so I can do better in the future!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Davey closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. These were the best smells and sounds. Oil popping on the stove, apples boiling in a pot beside it, Sarah and Les arguing about who got to flip the latkes in the pan, their mother singing softly as she grated potatoes and onions—the less-than pleasant scent combination of onions and apples…</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Les, come away from the stove and let your sister take care of the latkes,” Esther said finally. “Help me peel these potatoes.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, Mame,” Les sighed, joining his mother at the table. He picked up a peeler and got to work on a large potato. “Why doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>Davey</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m helping!” Davey protested. He grabbed two potatoes and an onion and started to juggle them, grin growing the longer he managed to keep them in the air. He actually kept them going for a few minutes before he missed one of the potatoes and it dropped down onto his foot. “Ouch!” he yelped, jumping back and sending the other potato and the onion crashing to the floor as well. “Oops.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Oy vey,” Esther sighed. “Pick those up, please, David.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Davey, your apples are boiling over!” Sarah called from the stove.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Davey grabbed the potatoes and onion and chucked them at the table as he sprinted to turn the flame down on the stove, stirring the apple slices with a wooden spoon to break the surface tension on the water and help keep them from boiling over. Sarah laughed and shook her head, tucking long brown hair behind her ear and out of her face.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Davey grabbed a fork and stuck it in one of the apple slices. “Are they ready to drain yet?” Sarah asked.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not quite,” said Davey. “They’re not quite soft yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Sarah nodded and flipped one of the latkes in the shallow layer of oil in her cast-iron pan. She fished out another and placed it on a towel to drip-dry some of the oil with the others that were already cooked, then set to making a new one to take its place in the pan. Davey kept stirring the apples, letting them boil but trying to keep them from boiling </span>
  <em>
    <span>over</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay, these are done,” he said finally. “Sarah, watch out.” He used a pair of knit cotton potholders to pick up the pot and carry it around his sister to the sink, where he dumped the apples into a colander. The hot pot went on the back of the stove, out of the way while it cooled, and Davey stirred around the apples in the strainer to make sure all of the water was drained.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Let them cool a little before you mash them,” said Esther from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, Mame,” said Davey.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Come chop some onions while you wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Davey grabbed a cutting board and sharp knife and sat down at the table across from Les. He peeled the papery coating off of one of the onions and started chopping it into chunks for his mother to grate. A few onions in and his eyes were already watering. Les and Esther were also red-eyed, laughing over the involuntary reaction to the scent.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>After about ten minutes, David was out of onions and his eyes were burning and watering so badly that he could hardly see. He set the knife aside and stood up, staggering towards the stove, to wash his hands. Three washes later, he could still smell the onions on them, but the scent was much more faint, and the soap had replaced some of the onion stink in the air. He dried his hands on a towel and used it to blot the tears from his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Over by the stove, Sarah was chuckling to herself as she switched the cooked latkes to a cookie sheet and slipped them in the oven to keep them warm while she made the next batch. Davey pulled the heavy colander of boiled apples out of the sink and dumped them into the biggest bowl in the kitchen, setting the colander aside once it was empty.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Davey, do you think we’ll need more applesauce? We can get some more apples ready to boil if you’d like.” Esther called to him from the table, setting her grater aside to get up and check the bowl. “Oh, yes. Definitely more. Les, why don’t you take a break from the potatoes and do some apples?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I don’t want to peel any more,” Les whined. “It’s making my hand hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Why don’t you come help me with the applesauce, and then I’ll help you peel apples,” Davey suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay!” Les agreed readily. Davey grabbed a stool while Les hopped up and hurried over to him.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay,” Davey said, reaching for the mashing tool. “It’s pretty easy. You just smash all the apples with these, just like making mashed potatoes—which I know you’ve helped with before. But apples are softer, and it’s okay if they’re more chunky than mashed potatoes. Just make sure you’re getting all the stuff stuck to the sides and bottom of the bowl, not just what’s on top.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Les nodded eagerly, grabbing the tool from Davey. The older boy let him start mashing with gusto while he pulled the sugar from the cabinet and dumped some into the bowl with the apples. “Make sure you mix that in, Les.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay,” Les nodded. His tongue stuck out from between his teeth a little, a mix of determination and focus as he did his best to follow Davey’s instructions. Davey joined Esther at the table to peel a few apples, keeping an eye on Les to make sure he wasn’t making a mess or causing any disasters. After a few minutes, he went to check on his little brother. “How’s it going?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Look!” Les proudly showed him the bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That looks pretty good!” Davey grinned. “I’m just going to check it a little real quick, and then put it in some jars. Why don’t you go help Mame with the apples?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay,” Les nodded, hopping off the stool and hurrying back to the table. “Mame, did you hear? Davey said I did good with the applesauce!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I heard,” Esther laughed. “Very good, tattele.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Once he was sure it was mashed properly, Davey spooned the applesauce into mason jars, screwed the lids on tightly, and set them aside. Esther and Sarah would finish the canning process in the morning. The oil was sizzling as Sarah added more latkes to it when they heard the front door open.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Tate!” Les cried and leapt up from the table, racing towards the sound. “Tate! Welcome home!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Welcome home, Tate,” Sarah called from the stove as Mayer entered the kitchen, carrying Les with him. He leaned down to kiss Esther on the cheek, then did the same with Sarah at the stove. Davey got a clap on the back as his father (and brother) joined him at the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Tate, I helped Davey with the applesauce!” Les said proudly. “He said I did a good job!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ah, very good, tattele!” Mayer beamed, setting Les down on the stool. He pulled something shiny out of his pocket and leaned down to whisper conspiratorially to his youngest child. “I think a good job like that deserves an early piece of gelt, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Les gasped and reached for the coin.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Mayer chuckled and handed it to him, ruffling his dark hair. “Don’t tell Mame,” he whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Don’t tell Mame what?” called Esther from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Nothing, Zeeskeit,” Mayer laughed, a deep, rolling sound. He patted Les on the head again, straightened up to do the same to Davey—he had to reach up to get Davey’s head, as the boy was taller than him at this point—and joined Esther at the table to peel potatoes. “Sarah, how are the latkes coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“There’s a bunch in the oven to keep warm already,” said Sarah, smiling over her shoulder. “Are you hungry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe soon,” said Mayer, picking up one of the peeled apples to begin slicing it. “Let’s finish these first.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Esther handed Sarah a bowl of freshly-mixed latke dough. “That’ll be the last of it,” she said, turning to the last of the apples on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over by the counter, Les peeled the foil off of his chocolate coin. He snapped it in half and offered one of the pieces to Davey, who took it and shoved it into his mouth with a grin. “Bitte,” he whispered around the candy</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, what are you two doing over there?” Esther called. “Les, what are you eating?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” the boy said quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? You’d better not be spoiling your appetite for dinner!” said Esther.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not, Mame, I promise!” Les swallowed the last of the chocolate and turned around to smile innocently at his mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Esther stared suspiciously at him. “Come help me and Tate with the apples,” she said finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Mame!”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Menorah</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Mother, where are the matches?” Katherine called over her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“In the drawer by the stove!” Helen called back.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Where?” Katherine shouted, frustrated, as she rifled through the drawer her mother had indicated, unable to find the matchbook. She heard her mother’s footsteps approaching just as she found the matches stuck inside of one of the oven mitts. “I found them! They were in an oven mitt.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Helen laughed and shook her head. She glanced out the window. “You’d better hurry.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Katherine leaned over and kissed her mother on the cheek, hurrying into the living room. “Father, it’s time to light the menorah. Do you want to join me tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Maybe tomorrow, Katherine.” Her father’s voice was disinterested, and he didn’t take his eyes off of the paper he was flipping through. Katherine sighed and shook her head slightly, but hurried off towards the staircase.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>In her room, she went to the window looking out over the street. A small, unassuming silver menorah was set on the windowsill, the day’s candles already set up in it, ready to be lit. As the sun slipped behind the New York City skyline, Katherine struck a match and lit the shamash in the center of the menorah. She stood up and picked the shamash out of its place on the menorah, then closed her eyes—she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to do that, but it always felt right—and whispered the blessings under her breath. That was another thing she wasn’t sure if </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be doing; she knew that the head of the household was supposed to recite the blessings, but since her father was unwilling to do so, she’d done it herself since she started celebrating Hanukkah a few years previous.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Her father had been raised Jewish. His parents had been Hungarian immigrants, both Jewish themselves, and had raised him and his (now-estranged) brother in their religion, but Joseph had stepped away from Judaism in his twenties. Katherine’s mother was Episcopalean, and had taken Katherine to church with her from time to time as a child, but even that fell away as Katherine got older. She had never felt particularly connected to Christianity anyways. Her grandmother had taught her about Judaism when she was about thirteen, shortly before passing away, and Katherine had found the knowledge infectious. She’d learned everything about Judaism after that, pestering her father, Davey Jacobs and his family, and anyone else she could find who would talk to her. She’d checked books out from the library and studied everything she could get her hands on. She knew many people wouldn’t consider her Jewish, since her mother was goy, but she was earnest, and figured that the worship was probably appreciated no matter what her lineage was, and did her best to observe as many practices as she could.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Hanukkah, and the menorah specifically, was one of her favorites. She loved the lights of the candles, and what they signified, from the liberation of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem to the single day’s supply of oil that had lasted eight. While she didn’t follow many Hanukkah traditions, she always made sure to keep this one. The menorah had been a gift from the Jacobs family when she was fifteen, a way to observe Hanukkah on her own, after her father’s refusal to join her. She still tried to convince him to do so, and continued to be rejected night after night, year after year, but… maybe someday he’d say yes, so she kept asking.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Once the blessings were said, she lit the other candles with the shamash, then set it back in its place. In true winter evening fashion, it was already nearly dark outside. Katherine settled on her floor near the windowsill, back against her bed, and watched the flames flicker, both on the menorah itself and in the reflection in the window. She hummed softly to herself, then began to sing a song she’d learned from Davey and Sarah a few years before:</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Ma'oz tzur yeshu'ati,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Lecha na'eh leshabe-ach.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Tikon beit tefilati</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Vesham todah nezabe-ach.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Le'eit tachin matbe-ach,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Mitzar ham'nabe-ach</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Az egmor beshir mizmor</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Chanukat hamizbe-ach.</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The song was simple, easy to remember, and Katherine sang it through a few times, slower than she ever had with the Jacobs, to suit the mood of her evening. She loved this song. It always made her smile. Sometimes she sang it to herself just because, throughout the year. She couldn’t remember the translation of the lyrics—and made a mental note to ask Davey if he knew it next time she saw him—but they always made her feel… safe. Protected.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>At one point, she thought she heard a sound at her door and turned to look over her shoulder, hoping to see her father there, but it remained closed.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>In the hallway, Joseph Pulitzer stood with his hand on the doorframe, listening to his daughter singing quietly the same song he remembered his mother singing when he was a child. He smiled to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe tomorrow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe tomorrow he’d have the courage to join Katherine. For tonight, he would listen.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dreidel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Bang. Bang bang. Bang.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Davey, stop!” Les whined. “Mame, make Davey stop it! He’s trying to make it fall on my turn!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What?” said Davey innocently, leaning away from the table. “I would never.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You should have to put gelt in the pot every time you bang on the table,” said Les, glaring at Davey over the spinning wooden top between them. It began to rattle, and fell with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clank</span>
  </em>
  <span> against the tabletop.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Shin. Put a coin in.” Davey grinned innocently at Les, who scowled back and put a chocolate coin on the stack in the middle of the table. “Sarah, it’s your turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, Davey, thank you. I know.” Sarah picked up the top, held it carefully, and gave it a determined spin. It whirled across the table, and the boys leaned down to watch it intently, willing it to land on shin or nun so that Sarah didn’t get the pot.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Across the living room, Esther smiled to herself. She and Mayer were sitting together on the sofa, attention divided between the flames of the menorah on the windowsill and the intense game going on between their children. The top fell, and Les and Davey’s shouting drew her attention back to them as a grinning Sarah raked all of the chocolate gelt from the center of the table towards herself and began stacking it neatly.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s not fair!” Les whined.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“How is it not fair?” Davey asked.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We each have a one in four chance of getting the pot every time we spin,” said Sarah.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> win!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You will sooner or later,” Sarah shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m almost out of chocolate, though… I wanted to have some to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Have a sufganiyot,” Davey suggested. “They’re sweet and sugary.” He pushed the plate of jelly-filled donuts covered in powdered sugar towards Les, but the younger boy sulkily refused them.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Les, you don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” said Sarah. “You can take your gelt and eat it, but once it’s gone you can’t start playing again.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“But I want to play!” said Les.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Then stop whining!” Davey reached a long arm over the table to poke Les in the forehead, easily avoiding the slap Les tried to land on his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“David and Leslie Jacobs, there will be no fighting in this house!” Esther said sternly. “If we can’t get along, you’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> be giving </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of your gelt back to your father, and no-one will be able to eat any of it. Except for me and your father.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Les scowled at Davey and stuck his tongue out at the older boy, but remained silent, crossing his arms and glaring at the dreidel. Davey picked up the top and gave it a spin. “Shin. I put one in. See, it’s not just you, Les.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The top made a few more rounds before anyone took anything from the pot again. This time it was Davey, to Les’s ire, who landed on hey and got to collect half of the pot.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“See, it’s not fair!” Les shouted. “You guys </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> win!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Les,” Mayer’s voice carried an unspoken warning in its tone.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I think we should be done for the night,” said Sarah. She and Davey traded glances. “Here, Les, you take what was left in the pot, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Les was still pouting, but he lightened up considerably when the little pile of gelt was pushed his way. Esther smiled to herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nicely done, you two.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Who’s hungry? There’s still some latkes in the oven.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I want applesauce!” Les popped up.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Latkes too?” Esther asked, standing up to head to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Just applesauce.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Anyone else?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes please, Mame!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Esther returned with a plate of warm, crispy latkes and a jar of the applesauce Davey had made a few days previous. “Mayer, come join us,” she called as she set the food on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The plate of latkes made its rounds, followed by the jar of applesauce and an accompanying spoon—Les was given a bowl and spoon to eat the applesauce on his own, swinging his feet happily under the table—and they munched on the crunchy-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside potato cakes and chattered happily with each other. When the latkes were gone, Sarah took the dishes into the kitchen and put them in the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Some of the candles are out,” Les said, pointing at the menorah.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Well, it’s been about half an hour since nightfall, so that’s alright,” said Mayer.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Does that mean I can go play now?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Make sure your homework is done first,” said Mayer.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Les nodded and hopped down from his chair, stuffing his gelt into his pockets before dashing off towards his and his siblings’ bedroom. In the kitchen, the water could be heard running as Sarah started to wash the dishes. Davey picked up the plate of sufganiyot and took it into the kitchen to put the donuts away, then helped Sarah with the dishes. In the living room, Esther and Mayer returned to the couch and settled down with their arms around each other.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Well, you know what the goyim say,” said Mayer after a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hm? What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year’.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Remembrance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Albert Dasilva didn’t consider himself Jewish. He knew that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically</span>
  </em>
  <span>, since his mother had been Jewish he was—at least to some extent, by matrilineal law—but he’d never thought of himself as Jewish. He and his brothers had been born to a very protestant father and an extremely Jewish mother, both as married to their faiths as they were to each other. The boys hadn’t been raised in either tradition, but their parents had practiced both of their respective religions, so they’d still been surrounded by faith. He remembered watching his mother observe Shabbat when he was young, and celebrating Hanukkah with her. He also remembered Easter morning services and Christmas celebrations with his father’s family, before they had all moved away. He had a pendant of the Star of David and another with a crucifix, hanging on the knob of his top dresser drawer. He wore whichever was appropriate to the day—the Star of David on Jewish holy days and Saturdays (even though he didn’t keep the Sabbath), the crucifix through Easter week and on Christmas and Sundays. The star had been his mother’s. After she died, it had become his.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Rachel Dasilva had died when her youngest son was nine and a half. She had died on the first day of Hanukkah, and for years after, Albert had refused to celebrate it. Her death sent shockwaves through the family. Frank Sr. withdrew completely from his own faith. “How can I follow a God who would take my beloved wife from me? My children’s mother from them?” Frank Jr. turned away from any faith as well, proclaiming himself agnostic at some point in high school and leaving it at that. Bo, on the other hand, had immersed himself fully in the traditions of his mother and her people. He attended the synagogue, observed Shabbat—to an extent—and kept the holy days. He even—as much as he could—kept kosher, which Frank Sr. would grumble half-heartedly about in regards to cooking. It had taken a few years, but, eventually, Albert found himself drawn back towards the church as well. If pressed, he would probably have labelled himself ‘agnostic’ like Junior; he could never satisfactorily decide which religion felt more “right” to him, and did his best to respect both even though he didn’t really practice either.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert was twelve the first time he celebrated Hanukkah without his mother. Bo had observed it faithfully every year since, with his father’s help in lighting the candles when he was little. Junior joined them the year after Albert, and Frank Sr. the year after that, once he realized how much the holiday had come to mean to his boys—how much it connected them to their mother.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>After that, their household had been fully given over, once again, to celebrating both winter holidays. Light came back to the Dasilva home in December, from the menorah to the Christmas tree, and joy came back into their hearts. Frank, Junior, and Albert could occasionally even be seen at the Christmas Eve service of Frank’s old church, and Bo and Albert were always present at the synagogue for the Hanukkah Shabbat. Someone somewhere would probably have something to say about that. That Albert was being heretical or hypocritical or one of those long words beginning with an ‘h’, but he didn’t really care.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Now that he was seventeen, he was really coming to appreciate how much observing Hanukkah made him feel close to his mother. She’d been gone for nearly half his life at this point, and yet… every December, for eight days in a row, while he stood with his brothers and whispered blessings and sang songs while Frank did his best to make latkes in the kitchen, the popping oil and yelped curse words a disconcerting backdrop to the soft and broken Hebrew they sang in, it still felt like she was standing behind them, hands in theirs or arms around their shoulders as she led them through the songs.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Tonight was no different. Tonight, along with Davey, Katherine, and Specs, he’d hurried out of rehearsal as early as possible, practically running the whole way home, leaving Race and Cora and Jack behind. He’d burst through the door, gasping for breath, shortly after nightfall, to find Bo and Junior waiting impatiently for him, Frank already swearing at the hot oil in the kitchen. The shamash was already burning, and Albert had shucked his coat and outerwear, set his guitar aside, and hurried to stand with his brothers. Bo led the blessing—as the only practicing Jew in the house, that only seemed right—and then the other two joined in singing once the menorah was lit. Albert reached up to rub the pendant around his neck and smiled to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is for you, Mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
  <span>When the singing was done, the boys trouped into the kitchen to see what Frank had managed to cook up between curse words.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You’d think after… </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> many years I’d’ve figured out how to do this by now without burnin’ myself,” Frank grumbled, using a potholder to try and shield himself from the popping oil.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Bo laughed and peered over his shoulder. “They look good, Dad. Lumpy as ever.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hey, watch out, or I’ll be makin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> do this next year if you ain’t careful.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Bo grinned and joined his brothers at the table, where a plate of latkes, bowl of sour cream, and platter of still-steaming brisket were set. While Frank finished the last of the latkes, the boys started eating.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert went for the latkes first. His mother’s latkes had been his favorite food as a kid, and he looked forward to them every year still—even though his father’s couldn’t begin to hold a candle to hers. He put a few onto his plate, dropped sour cream on top of them, took a big bite of the first… and had to fight to keep himself from retching. Bo nearly choked on his own food, laughing at the look that came across his younger brother’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Uh… Dad?” Albert said, once he’d managed to get the bite down.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“These… These are </span>
  <em>
    <span>raw</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What?” Frank whipped around, glaring furiously at the offending plate of latkes. “Impossible. I cooked them even longer than normal!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I think they’re too thick,” Junior supplied, picking up one of the hefty cakes. Frank glared at him. “Not criticizing!” Junior said quickly. “Just sayin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Just… eat around the edges,” Bo suggested. “That part should be done.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Sadly, Albert began to dissect the cakes, using his fork to pry the cooked parts away from the lump of starchy, sticky potato and onion </span>
  <em>
    <span>goo</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the center of the latke, making two separate piles: one of crispy fried exterior bits, and one of sad center rejects.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sorry, kid,” Frank sighed as he joined them at the table, bearing the last few latkes. “I know how much you look forward to those.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s fine,” Albert laughed. “Thanks for tryin’.” After some trial and error, he started eating the latke pieces like french fries—picking them up and dipping them into the sour cream—and was soon munching happily. “Actually, they’re really not bad. The parts that’re cooked, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Frank beamed proudly. “Well. That ain’t so awful, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The Dasilva boys were never quiet, but, on these nights, they tended to keep the volume to a low roar. The agreement to do so was unspoken, and the reason why was never discussed. As he and Bo washed the dishes, Albert wondered why. He didn’t remember their mother ever trying to get them to be quiet. He mulled it over for a while, his thoughts continuously circling back to the night his mother had died and her wake a week later. That had been the quietest time in the whole of his life, and he sometimes wondered if his typical level of noise was an unconscious rebellion against what had also been the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> time of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Bo nudged him with his elbow. “You got smoke comin’ out of your ears, Albie.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert rolled his eyes and kicked Bo in the shin. “Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What’re you thinkin’ about?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert was quiet for a moment. “Mom,” he said finally.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Bo smiled fondly. “Yeah. Me too. Always, durin’ Chanukah.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“She’d be happy about all this, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That this is our way to remember her. It’d make her happy. I don’t know how much you remember her, but she always loved Chanukah. She said it was because she loved winter, and because she could sort of celebrate it with Dad, since he was doin’ Christmas and all. So this would all make her real happy. And that he was tryin’ to do it with us? She’d love that.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Albert smiled to himself. “You think?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah. I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“So do I.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Bo set the last of the dishes into their places in the cabinets. “Come on. Think we’s too old for dreidel?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Nah,” Albert laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Old enough to bet real money, though, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Um…”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Come on. Let’s see how much we can win off Frankie.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Mi Yimalel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>“Mi yimalel gevurot Yisrael,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Otan mi yimne?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Hen be’chol dor yakum ha’gibor</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Goel ha’am.”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Specs waved goodbye to Smalls as the two of them separated to head down their respective streets. He stuffed his hands in his pockets against the cold, his breath coming out in frosty puffs highlighted by the setting sun. He walked quickly, not wanting to be so late in getting home that his parents would scold him. When he entered their building, he tugged his mittens off and shoved them into his pockets; upon reaching his family’s door, he brushed a hand across the mezuzah as he entered their apartment: a silent, reverent greeting.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Inside, it was warm and smelled like cooking chicken and onions. Specs shed his coat and hung it on a peg by the door, adding his hat to the mittens in the pockets, before hurrying into the living room. His family was already gathered there, and his mother looked up and smiled as he entered.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sorry I’m late,” Specs said, leaning down to kiss his mother on the cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It’s alright; you’re not too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Shma!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    Ba’yamim ha’hem ba’zman ha’ze</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    Maccabi moshia u’fode</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    U’v’yameinu kol am Yisrael</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    Yitached yakum ve’yigael!”</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs and his siblings stood in a cluster around their parents as their father lit the shamash, lifted it and said the night’s blessing, and lit the other candles on the menorah before setting the shamash back in its place. Once that was done, they settled into their places around the room: parents on the couch, and the children on the floor around them.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Welcome home, Michael,” Specs whispered to his older brother as they settled down to watch the candles burn and enjoy each other’s company.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Michael, the eldest of the Abrams children, grinned and nudged Specs with his elbow. He’d been gone for over three months, at university in Boston, studying mathematics, and his younger siblings had missed him the entire time.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“To celebrate Michael bein’ home for the first time since August, your mother and I decided that tonight would be a good night for some gifts,” their father, Samuel, said, producing a pair of small, silver-wrapped packages and handing one each to the younger children, Seraphina and Joey. His wife, Rebekah, beamed as she pulled out another pair of packages and handed them to Michael and Specs.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“One at a time,” said Rebekah. “I want to hear what you think of them. Michael, you start.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Grinning, Michael ripped the paper away from the package to reveal a pair of grey hand-knit socks. “Oh, these are great, Ma! All of my socks have holes in them.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I figured they’d be good for those cold winters in Boston,” Rebekah laughed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell me you brought your other socks home so I can darn them?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“They’re in my suitcase.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Gabriel, you next,” said Samuel.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs nodded and pulled the paper away from his gift to reveal a small book. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Catcher in the Rye</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he read the title.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“My coworker read it and said it was good,” said Samuel. “I thought you might like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I think JoJo read it and said it was good,” Specs nodded. “I’m lookin’ forward to it!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Seraphina?” Rebekah turned to her only daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Sera nodded and ripped the paper away from her gift, squealing in excitement when it revealed a small jewelry box that opened to reveal a beautiful bracelet. “Oh, Momma, Papa, it’s so pretty! Thank you!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m glad you like it,” Rebekah smiled happily. “Jophiel, your turn!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Joey was possibly the most excited to open his gift, peeling the silver wrapping off to reveal a pair of small boxes. They opened to produce a pair of small toy cars, one green and one black. “Matchbox cars! Thank you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Who can retell the things that befell us,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Who can count them?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>In every age, a hero or sage</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Came to our aid.”</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The rest of the evening was spent in the living room, eating the chicken and matzo ball soup Rebekah had made and enjoying each other’s quiet company in the light of the menorah flames. Specs curled up with his book next to Michael, who was learning how to darn his socks from Rebekah. Joey played with his cars on the floor for a little while, then joined Sera and Samuel for a game of dreidel at the kitchen table, betting with sugary oven-roasted peanuts.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>At the table, Sera and Joey could be heard trading lighthearted quips—that sometimes dipped into actual arguments—over the soft whir of the top spinning across the tabletop. Rebekah and Michael spoke in low voices, Rebekah sharing instruction and Michael asking questions, both about the darning process and about how the family had been doing while he was gone. After a while, he turned to Specs.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What’s this I hear about you bein’ in a band?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs laughed and put his book aside. “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> the band, technically. I handle all of the money stuff, so I collect our payments when we perform payin’ shows, and pay for venues that charge us to play there. And JoJo and I do most of the marketin’ and stuff like that. I don’t, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing</span>
  </em>
  <span> or anythin’.” He shuddered at the thought, and Michael laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Who all’s in it? What music do you play?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs happily filled him in on all of the details of the past few months, glossing over the worst parts, like their run-ins with the Delancey twins and issues with the school principal. “It’s a lot of fun, though. We have a good time, and our shows are really popular. We have a few comin’ up; you should come and see one.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah, definitely!” Michael nodded eagerly. “I’d love to.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“We’re playin’ a winter dance at a rec center the day before Christmas Eve. Seraphina and her friends are comin’, and I think a few other people’s siblings will be there too. It’s twenty-one and under, I think. You could come to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Okay,” Michael nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Hark!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    In days of yore in Israel’s ancient land</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    Brave Maccabeus led the faithful band</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    But now all Israel must as one arise</b>
</p><p>
  <b>    Redeem itself through deed and sacrifice.”</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Late that night, Michael and Specs were lying in bed, listening to Joey snore on the other side of the room. “I don’t miss that,” Michael whispered, trying not to laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yeah, I wouldn’t either,” Specs grumbled. “Don’t your roommates snore at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“One does a little, and one of them talks in his sleep. Can’t tell if it’s the same one or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs smothered a laugh. “What does he say?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Mostly fights with someone. I think his sister, ‘cause he don’t got a girlfriend, but I’m not sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs failed to smother the laugh that followed that comment, and they both froze, waiting to see if it would wake Joey. When the snoring continued uninterrupted, they relaxed. “You really goin’ to come to our show?” Specs asked.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Of course!” said Michael.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“It ain’t to… I don’t know, childish, or anythin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No. Why would it be?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I dunno. You’re all grown up and off in college now. Seems like a bunch of high schoolers playing a rec center’s winter dance would be a little… childish.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hey, it’s important to you, so it’s important to me, okay? Anyways, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of high school. It’s not like I’m suddenly an old man or somethin’. I’m still just a year and a half older than you, like I always have been. And I like your friends. It’ll be good to see JoJo and some of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Specs smiled. “Thanks. We’ll be glad to have you there.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m lookin’ forward to it. Now let me get some sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Hey! You started talkin’ first.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Michael made fake snoring noises that ended in a snigger when Specs rolled over and smacked him in the stomach with a pillow. Across the room, Joey’s snores stopped and the older boys froze. They saw his silhouette as he sat up and looked around blearily. “Did someone say somethin’?” the boy slurred.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Go back to sleep, Joey,” Michael whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Joey smacked his lips, yawned, and laid back down. Specs and Michael suppressed further laughter and settled down, Michael on his side and staring at the wall, Specs on his back and looking up at the blurry ceiling. He smiled to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s nice to be together again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Go to sleep, Gabe.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Good night, Mikey.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Mi yimalel gevurot Yisrael,</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Otan mi yimne?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Hen be’chol dor yakum ha’gibor</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Goel ha’am.”</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I do not own anything you may recognize from Newsies or the associated medias. I do not own any lyrics or quotes used in these stories. I do, however, own anything you don’t recognize from these other sources, as well as the stories themselves.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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